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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384421">momentary (to age in stutters and then all at once)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestDivinity/pseuds/forestdivinity'>forestdivinity (ForestDivinity)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Daemon Separation, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Dynamics, Gen, Growing Up, Pre-Canon, Sibling Bonding, bildungsroman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:29:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestDivinity/pseuds/forestdivinity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up is never easy. <br/>Growing up in a family of seven (fourteen, depending on how you look at it) is a trial by fire. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>You don't need to know a huge amount of His Dark Materials to understand this AU!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Klaus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>1.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Klaus and Pan were eight, their world suddenly shifts on its axis. One minute, they are together. The next they are apart. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Klaus understands loneliness then, the way it seeps into his bones, suffocating and cold. From that moment, the world is always cold. He rests his head on the cold stone of the mausoleum floor and lets tears leak down his cheeks, they feel hot against his skin, they feel very far away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All around him, there are voices, the crying out of restless spirits that won't leave him be. Night after night, he is left there alone. Sometimes he thinks he might become a wandering spirit himself, but he doesn't. Klaus doesn't know what's worse, the separation or the being reunited.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's not fair to have to hope that they'll be allowed to stay together this time - Klaus knows he'll never be good enough for his father, he's sure that Pan knows it too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After they turn eight, Pan doesn't talk much anymore. He stops changing shape, even when Klaus asks him to and Klaus wonders if this is what settling is.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't feel right. He lets Pan stay quiet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were alone again. Klaus was alone again, stuck in the dark, the emptiness that seemed to go on for as long as the eye could see. And he couldn't see very far at all, even when he put his hand up he couldn't see the tips of his fingers, couldn't even see the shadow of them when he moved.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pan wasn't there. Pan never seemed to be where Klaus needed him to be anymore. It wasn't his fault, Klaus could feel his fear, the very same fear that permeated his own bones. That sickness, whenever their father touched Pan, had become as familiar to him as the mausoleum floor. Klaus tried to open his mouth, tried to make any sound at all, but nothing came out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not a scream, not a cry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He woke up. Sweat had soaked through his thin pyjamas and into the bedsheets, sinking into the mattress. There was no sound but the wind battering against the windows, it sounded like footsteps which sounded like anger. Klaus looked around the room for Pan but couldn't see him until suddenly he was there on the bedside table.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was no moonlight to illuminate him, all Klaus could see was the faint reflection of his eyes, his little rat nose twitching. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"A nightmare," Pan said, "nothing more than a nightmare." </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both ignored the figures that began to soak the room, it was just a nightmare after all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>3.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Umbrella Academy is marketed, at least, as a school. To Klaus, to Pan, to their siblings, it is undeniably a prison - even if they don't know the word yet. At the head of it, is their father.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There is never a good time to talk about Reginald Hargreeves.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reginald Hargreeves is a man with no children, no wife, no daemon - though he claims to have all three. In reality, he has six (seven) little soldiers, a robot, and a genetically enhanced chimp that very few people know about. This suits him just fine, it fits the image he wants to present to the world - generous, human, genius. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His children know better.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What they see in him is closer to the truth, they see him as cruel, and they see him as an authority, he is to be both feared and respected. In their minds, these things are one and the same.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, Pogo is with him. Most of the time, he is alone. They don't realise this is strange until they're older and then it strikes them as undeniably alien.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Fourteen children, and not one of them truly extraordinary," Reginald would say, on the days in which he was really annoyed at them. In his eyes, they were separate things, a person and their daemon. Klaus and Pan weren't two halves of the same whole, neither were Luther and Madeleine, Diego and Ziphal - all of them were supposed to be individual, and so individually special.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One through Seven. A through G.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Klaus wasn't permitted to hold Pan then, they had to stand still, side by side while their father sized them up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>D was never a passing grade.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>4.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are rarely alone, except when they are totally alone. Klaus and Pan wake up with their siblings and walk themselves to breakfast, always fourth out of seven. Being the middle child isn't easy. Reginald starts them early, and they finish late - Klaus and Pan often later than most. They can't understand why their father insists on training in the middle of the night except they know-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They know they're scared of the dark, it's a weakness that Reginald won't tolerate.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After their alarm went off, Klaus would dress, identical to his brothers and make his way downstairs to the dining room table. The length of it has always intimidated them. All of them ate together, quietly, though never in silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Always, there was a tape playing. If there wasn't, it was because Reginald was talking and nothing good ever came from Reginald talking. More than ever, the silence made Klaus uncomfortable. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Pan would press up against his ankle beneath the table, his small body warm and soft. At least this was a familiar rhythm, it never changed, it had been this way as long as Klaus could remember.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eight of them at the table. Fifteen, depending on how you counted it. Klaus looks down at his eggs, all of them soaked with ketchup, and his stomach turns. The afterimage of something bloody fills his vision, and he fights the sudden urge to retch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Just a nightmare</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But it isn't a nightmare.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>5.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Here's a thing to know: Klaus Hargreeves is the fourth in a line of superpowered children. His gift - if one could call them that - isn't incredibly super at all. In time he would come to call it traumatising, shitty, a complete fucking disaster, among other things, each statement increasingly crude.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At age eight, he simply calls it bad.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It wouldn't be so awful if he was allowed to ignore it - instead, he's forced to acknowledge the angry, wandering dead. Those poor lost souls that linger on earth out of unfinished business, those who died in gruesome circumstances with their desires left unsaid - they're the ones who haunt Klaus. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reginald wants them to commune with those souls, make small talk, find out useful information. Klaus knows better when all they do is wail. Like Reginald, they're all missing a daemon. Perhaps that is why they're stuck, perhaps they're daemons, twisted into human form.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What is the difference between a ghost and a soul but grief?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Klaus wants to hold Pan closer, wants him right beside his heart so he can feel that warmth where all there seems to be is a cold, empty space. He doesn't like seeing the dead, he doesn't enjoy knowing they're around. Unfortunately, Pan isn't allowed to touch him while they're training - even during the day when their siblings are nearby, trying to do their own work. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Try again, Number Four," he's told, again and again, Klaus stood in the corner of the room where it is both quiet and cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther's daemon turns to watch him, Madeleine is a vervet monkey today, imitating their father's primate. Even then, Klaus doesn't believe Pogo is really a daemon - he's too distant, too attached in equal measure. Madeleine looks down her grey nose and Klaus imagines her scowling, there's a look he can't describe in her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It makes him uncomfortable.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pan shivered on his spot like a chill had gone through him. Pan didn't like when they were stared at, a lot of the time all he wanted to do was curl up and hide. Klaus was tired of being afraid.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>People always stared, even if the only people he knew were his siblings (and of course, his siblings' daemons). He had a feeling that people were always going to stare - how would they not? Klaus already knew that he wasn't normal, perhaps knew it best out of all their family.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No-one else spoke to people who weren't there, after all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was all too metaphorical for most eight-year-olds to understand, but Klaus and Pan weren't most eight-year-olds. To be fair, none of them were. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even Vanya was strange, despite her lack of powers. It was like a dulled edge on a blade, the way she seemed to walk through life a little dazed, a little empty. Nicolas was always changing, one minute small and the next big, one minute with four legs and the next with two. He never flew. Klaus understood the feeling of clipped wings all too well.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Do better, Number Four." Their father told them, day in and day out and all Klaus could do was shrug.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What else was there? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn't as if he wanted to do more. Every time he tried interacting with the dead, it was like he lost another piece of himself. Maybe it wasn't literal, but he felt it like an ache in his stomach, he felt it the way he felt his nails crack and bend whenever he clawed against stone. It was the familiar feeling of being trapped. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't understand why you don't just try harder, Klaus," Diego would say to him some days, the rare moments when their father wasn't around. It was always in moments like that he managed to speak around his stutter - some days Klaus hated him for it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How was he supposed to respond to that?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was no explaining to his siblings when they didn't really want to know. He tried to describe the dead once, his fear, but it was hard to get the words out let alone make them coherent. They didn't understand, and Klaus didn't know how to make them realise why he was scared. At that age, it was still mostly a game of who could impress dad the most.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pan sat against his collar bone, just beneath his shirt and sighed. Neither of them ever won.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You'll do better soon, Four." Allison tried to comfort them, and that was the biggest lie of all. It hurt more than Diego's judging, more than the way Madeleine tried to lecture them under Luther's stern gaze.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn't fair because it gave him hope.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Leave them alone," Dolores would say eventually, sometimes in the form of a cat, other times a butterfly. She never strayed far from Five, nearly always in constant contact.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pan shivered again. They hated being apart.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ben</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>6.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bigger Ben grew, the smaller Niamh got. More than anything, they wanted to be hidden. Wanted to be able to vanish under the heavy weight of the world, the weight of their father's gaze. Niamh tried being many things, a mouse, a moth, a tiny, iridescent beetle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Smaller," Ben would whisper, feeling uncomfortable things rumble under his skin, but she never got small enough.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He kept growing bigger, growing with the passing years into a body that never quite fit him right. The years added inches to his height, put unwanted muscle on his shoulders - no matter how hard they tried, they were always found.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their father was a stern, unrelenting man. Reginald was all sharp edges, made to cut anything that came into contact with him. Again and again, Ben brushed up against him and came away in ribbons - mostly it was a metaphor. Sometimes, it was real too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was easier for his siblings, they didn't have a monster bubbling under their skin, a third where there should have only been two, something forcing them to walk a different path. Ben wanted to read books, wanted to hide away from the world and all the temptations it had, he wanted to be able to hide from his father. He wanted to be like Vanya, ordinary, quiet, unassuming. Being fragile like that would have meant he was impossible to hate and impossible to use.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niamh wanted them to grow up, be bigger and stronger so they could protect themselves, protect the people they loved. The thing inside of him simply wanted to be able to consume, become full of mouths and teeth and blood, as if that too could end their suffering.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But they were, unfortunately, none of those things. In the grand scheme of things, they were nothing more than a child with an unsettled daemon, somehow both too much and too little all at once. They were a boy with a tyrant for a father, a man made of thorns and bristles and all the things that hurt.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niamh didn't settle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben bled easily.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His siblings noticed, but they had little power to do anything for him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>7.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben wrapped himself in his sheets and pretended it was a nest as if a thin blanket could protect him from the whole world. Niamh pressed up against his chest, a heavy presence. She was large now, covered in thick fur. Both of them were getting bigger, and neither of them wanted to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Inside his chest, in his stomach, something rumbled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They ignored it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Let's run away," Niamh whispered, right against his ear. She was a part of him, as much as his fingers and his toes. "We could do it, we're smart enough to figure out how."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They'd read a lot of books, ones hidden in the back of the library like contraband - sometimes children ran away in them. Other times they were taken by bad men.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It always ended one of two ways.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We'd be found, the police would bring us back."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They were nine, and Ben had only met the police once, during a training exercise. Reginald had told them that they'd be meeting again soon, that they'd be going on missions. The horror in his stomach always twisted at this, Ben simply felt sick. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't like the police, and he didn't like the thought of hurting people. Reginald made them tear apart dummies most of the time, sometimes live animals - Niamh never turned into something once they'd died under Ben's touch. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"They're supposed to help people when they're hurt," Niamh said, she didn't sound sure at all. The books always confused him, Ben didn't know how he was supposed to think. Fathers in his stories were never as cruel as his.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know." He murmured, voice soft. No one had ever helped them before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not him and Niamh, not Luther, or Diego, or Allison. Certainly not Five and Klaus and Vanya. Why would they help him now?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Then what? We stay? Until we're nothing more than one big, bleeding, corpse?" Niamh changed in his arms, she became something covered in scales, long and twisting like the creature in his stomach. She never stayed the same for long, shifted with the weather, with her every mood. It was like she couldn't fit inside her skin right - Ben understood that feeling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They'd learnt about corpses recently, during their private training. Reginald had shown them one, a human one, perfectly preserved in formaldehyde. He'd pointed at the jugular, the femoral artery, told Ben the best places to attack.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A corpse was dead, it could get injured, but it wouldn't feel things anymore.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben was injured, somewhere inside. He could still feel that hurt, that throbbing pain that never seemed to leave him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then their alarm went off. It rang through the air, a familiar, piercing cry that made them both flinch. In his arms, Niamh jerked and changed again, became a bird - a tiny, fluttering sparrow with her feathers all fluffed up. It was easier for her to hide her emotions like this, she was better at that then Ben.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He untangled himself from his blankets and sighed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Time for breakfast again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>8.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben got on well with his siblings. He could enjoy time with any of them, even if only for a little while. Diego and Luther could barely be in a room together without being at each other's throats, and Allison and Klaus had an off, and on again relationship, he'd never understood.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben often felt like glue, holding his family together. Sticky, stretched too thin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't always like the directions he was pulled.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We don't have to go with him," Niamh would whisper as they trailed after Five, listening to him spout off equations that Ben didn't quite comprehend. He missed the quiet of the library in those moments, the ability to curl up and be ignored. She sat on his shoulder as a mourning dove, soft in colour with her beak buried in his hair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"He just wants someone to talk to." All of them spoke, but they were rarely heard. There was just too much silence in the old house they lived in, too much of their father's piercing gaze. No matter what they said to each other, it was hard to feel listened too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dolores turned to look at them, a stick insect today, perched in Five's hair. She liked to be small and light enough to carry, was whip-smart too just like Five. Niamh bristled on his shoulder and flickered, suddenly a bat, first a fruit eater, and then a hog-nosed one that they'd read about in a book. Ben twisted his hands in the sleeves of his shirt as she fluttered around his head once and then twice before sitting on his head, mirroring their siblings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Five shifted, Dolores shifted into a mammal, some sort of vole and hopped down to hide in Five's collar. In his hair, Niamh settled triumphantly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben wondered if that had been a threat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thought makes his stomach turn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We're always being spoken to," Niamh whispered once Dolores looked away and Ben didn't have a reply for that. His stomach itched, but this time it didn't feel like the monster that made a home inside of his body. This time it was all him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't know how to speak up. After all, in a family of seven, it was simply easier to follow the crowd. In the back of his mind, there was a fear that if he was too loud, they'd all become scared of him, the way Ben was scared of himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niamh becomes a tiny, quivering rabbit in his hair and then moments later a falconet, not much bigger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He suspects there's something wrong inside of him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>9.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere in the corners of his body, Ben had a temper. It fizzled and bubbled and smouldered beneath the surface of his skin. Most of the time, he couldn't tell if it was his anger, or if it belonged to the thing inside of him. Either way, Niamh couldn't stand it. She was many things when they got mad, a spitting polecat, a tiny, roaring lion cub, a baby bear with all the teeth to match. But not when they were with their siblings, and never when their father was around. Ben was cautious about getting angry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reginald rarely went away, but it happened every so often. When he did leave, he'd go for a week at a time, sometimes two, always on important business.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>None of them knew what sort of business, no matter how much they speculated.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"He's probably doing something with the government," Five would say, rolling his eyes as if they were all stupid.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"No, idiot, he's an alien going back to his home planet for alien nutrients, duh." Klaus would interject, Pan nowhere to be seen. They were ten then, and Klaus was growing bolder by the day.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Pan, outside of their training where he was forced to stand away from Klaus. Even then he was practically invisible, small and silent, and curled into a ball. No matter how their father yelled, Pan didn't respond. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Klaus responded though, spat and hissed like an animal himself. Even now there was a bruise across his chin, Ben felt it like his own. It was certainly an injury he was familiar with.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Four, don't call Dad an alien-" Luther is the only one to still use their numbers consistently (Five is the only one of them without a name and Ben still hasn't asked why). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>None of them like when Luther forgets their names, Klaus least of all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"My name is Klaus-" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Who-who cares what he's d-doing, we should b-be celebrating," Diego interjects, trying to soothe over an argument before it can begin. Behind his eyes, Ben can feel something prickling, and it feels like irritation. Niamh prowls around him in circles, shifting from an ocelot to a white-furred fox and back again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He rubs his tongue along his back teeth and fights the urge to sigh.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Diego only likes to fight if he's the one initiating.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben blinks, rubs his hands over the rough fabric of his shorts before he stands.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Bathroom." Is all he says when he gets a look from each of his siblings, but really his temper is threatening to rear its ugly head. He's not even sure why he's angry, it's as if the minute he gets a chance he gets mad. There must be a reason for it, but he doesn't know why.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niamh follows him like a shadow, snapping her teeth with every step. They're sharp at the moment, no matter what form she shifts into.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Later, their mother wraps their bruised knuckles in bandages and tape so the scabs across them can heal, and fixes the cracked tiles behind the bath.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Violence isn't the answer, Ben," mom tells him, every time this happens, keeping his secret for him without ever having to be asked. There's a plastic smile on her face and Ben wonders if there's some sort of glitch in her coding.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Violence is a part of everyday life, it is his father never raising his voice but instead raising his cane. It is Luther and Diego taking chunks out of each other, with their teeth or with their words. It is Ben, with a monster hungry inside of him and blood covering his face. There was violence in every step he took, Ben understood this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stayed small until he was angry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Calm, until he reacted in an unrestrained flurry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, all he ached for was a fight, and he hated himself for it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>10.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He picked at bandages around his knuckles, the edges of it fraying, coming apart in little white pieces. They littered the floor around him like fluffy snow, Niamh ran through them, and her rabbit fur was white, white as the feathers of a dove, like the way the light looked if Ben stared at it too long.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They were struggling to find a place to exist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For their birthday - all of them eleven now - Ben and Niamh had been given a book of animals by Grace. It wasn't a unique present, but it was special nonetheless, with its glossy pages and brightly coloured pictures. Each one came with a description too, and Ben spent hours reading them, thumb tracing the outlines while Niamh flicked between forms. She liked to copy whatever they were reading, become big or small, bright or easily camouflaged.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben loved to watch her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All good things must come to an end.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She'd been an ocelot when Reginald came back from one of his trips, running around on four legs, in and out of Ben's feet. Something in him knew where she was, always, and he could walk without any fear of tripping, face buried in the book.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Klaus and Five had been arguing, somewhere up the stairs, their voices carrying through the echoey hallways of the old house, it was the only reason Ben hadn't heard the familiar tap of a cane. They were all intimately familiar with how their father sounded, walking through the hallways.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But Ben had been distracted. He had always been easily distractable, preferring the world of his imagination to the one he really lived in. Sometimes, he could conjure up beautiful storybook worlds, places where he never had to taste iron on his tongue or see red on his hands. More often, he thought of places upside down and inside out, where the world curved in on itself and strange noises filled the air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had a feeling that these were more real than he gave them credit. The thing in his stomach grumbled in agreement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Distracted, he'd not heard his father, not seen him walking down the hallway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing about Reginald Hargreeves was that he loved very little. He didn't prize the art that littered his walls, the books that filled his library, nor the children he had collected like prizes. There was the keyword indeed - collected - for Reginald Hargreeves was a curator and a scientist and a man very concerned with appearances.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had returned that day, with a set of Victorian microscope slides, worth something more than the extravagant price he'd paid for them. They were a historical curiosity, rare and fragile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben, eleven years old, knew a little of history and a lot of his father. For the rest of his life, he would hear the way glass shattered and remember this moment. Niamh stopped first, just managing to veer around Reginald, Ben did not.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Forward he stepped and knocked straight into another body. The box, all it's precious glass slides included, tilted and then fell.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tiny, sparkling pieces littered the floor and Ben froze, fear rising in his chest like a familiar old friend. Inside of him the beast of his temper roared, it told him to fight, to run, to do anything but this - he didn't. He stood, stock still.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their father was very quiet. The whole world was hushed, bar the echo of glass breaking in their ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The slides had cost their father more money than Ben had seen in his life, but for a man as rich as Reginald, it had been pocket change. It cost Ben the skin of his back, bruised in a tapestry of blue and purple and red - this wasn't unusual, corporal punishment regularly employed for their worst offences. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It cost Niamh a kick that left her rolling across the floor, the shock of being touched enough to make them both recoil.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And it cost their book.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"If you cannot respect the property of other people, Number Six," their father had said, "you do not have the right to keep your own."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The desk of their father's office was large, wooden, and always impeccably tidy. It was older than Ben, possibly older than Reginald himself, though none of the children could ever guess just how old their father was.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niamh stood at his feet, a tiny, terrified finch, her feathers ruffled up and face practically vanished. Ben stood and forced himself not to tremble, ignored the way his stomach twisted, pulling at his insides with the desire to eat, to destroy, to consume. It felt an awful lot like giving up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Between them, on the desk, was the book. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One by one, Reginald removed the pages. One by one they were neatly ripped into pieces barely bigger than Ben's thumb. The colourful pictures, the words, the glossy surfaces that they'd so adored became nothing more than tiny pieces of confetti - they'd read about that too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ben didn't let himself cry. Forced himself not to react at all. And then it was over.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry," Niamh said later, flicking through white animals like a flag of surrender, Ben picking at the fresh bandages around his knuckles.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry too," and he was, and he wasn't, and he was too many emotions to fit into himself. Sometimes he wondered if all his space to breathe was taken up with the otherworldly thing that used him as a home - or if not a home, at least a doorway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It felt like it was always there. Old and angry and hungry. But maybe that was just Ben.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Down the hallway, he hears his mother, hears Diego too, practising his words until they don't stop and restart right on his tongue. Jealousy bubbles inside of him, and all he wishes for is a second of freedom, the ability to get away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He lies on his side; Niamh turns into a moth and flies round and round the light bulb like a mobile until he falls asleep.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Luther</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <span>1.</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther knew himself. Knew plenty of facts too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Facts had been drilled into him for most of his life: he was Number One, he had six siblings, his father was important, and so his father was in charge - everyone had to listen to him. Luther's superpower was super strength; Madeleine preferred to run on four feet over two. All these facts went on, a perfect if overly long list.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing is, it's always lonely, being at the start of a line. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther had learnt his list of facts in a variety of ways. Some had been outright told to him (and to all his siblings too), other's he'd simply experienced and so known them to be true. Despite what Diego liked to say, he wasn't a complete, blockheaded idiot. In fact, he objected to being called an idiot at all. Sometimes he missed out on subtle things; it took him time to catch up - that didn't make him stupid. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His siblings just didn't understand him. (Luther just didn't understand his siblings). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Facts, he found, were easy to deal with. Tangible, simple things that could be stated, digested, understood. It was emotions he found a lot harder; feelings were where he always seemed to stumble and trip no matter how hard he watched his feet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>12.</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Often times, Luther would say he knew his father well, this wasn't entirely true. In all honesty, he didn't think anyone </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> their father on any level except the surface, but Luther understood what Reginald expected from him. Luther had to be composed, be strict, be a leader - follow in his father's footsteps as it were. Reginald demanded perfection, and Luther was determined to fill the shoes he'd been given, even if they often felt too big for his feet. Sometimes, he felt like a clown, the way he stumbled around (the way his siblings laughed at him) but he was determined nonetheless. One thing all the Hargreeves had in common was their unfailing stubbornness.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In his lap, Madeleine was a cat, something soft and sweet. Small but still quick enough to pounce if the need arose. More often than not, she was a lion, or a wolf, sometimes a polar bear walking upright on two legs like a man - neither of them really liked those forms, too brutal and unkind, but it was what was expected of them. What their father wanted. Luther had never wanted to be cruel. Ferocity was something he was taught; it was never innate within him; he just needed to be listened to. More often than not, no one seemed to hear him. Thankfully, there was no one around that he needed to lead at the moment, for he and Maddie were alone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It still wasn't enough, the quiet was still lonely, but he liked it a little better than having five personalities bucking against his grip. If he was honest, all he wanted was to exist as a sibling rather than an extension of his father's iron grip, but the facts were clear. He would always be Number One.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except now, he was nothing more than a lonely disappointment. In training, he'd fractured his shoulder. Luther hadn't cried because he'd been told not to; he better than to show his emotions on his face. Certain emotions, anyway, were forbidden. Sure, he could be angry at his siblings, be strict, commanding, rarely subservient - which emotions he was allowed to experience depended on the situation he was in. Who he was facing and who was facing him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Never was he allowed to be hurt. Never was he allowed to show weakness.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Those were the cold, hard facts—the truth of being his father's son.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At night, the infirmary got chilly. All the lights were switched off and the heating too; Luther was glad for Madeleine, the little ball of warmth that she was. Of course, she could have gotten bigger and warmer still, but they were both comfortable like this - happy was a different story altogether. Sometimes, in the frozen nights of the worst winters, mom would make them all a hot water bottle to take to bed. Those evenings had been his favourite when he got to wear his thick flannel pyjamas and curl up under his blanket and feel warm, safe. Madeleine reminded him of that hot water bottle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except, it didn't feel warm or safe now. Now Luther just felt cold despite how she nuzzled against him; now he felt like a disappointment. The guilt, the slow simmering self-hatred, wasn't something he was used to feeling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mom had braced his shoulder, propped him up against a pile of pillows after their father had left, but Luther couldn't sleep. Not with that shame running through his stomach; it burnt the way ice did. It paired uncomfortably with the relief he felt for a few moments away from the spotlight, the knowledge that he didn't have to play a role. No one was watching him except the moon, its silvery light filtering in through the windows.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When the injury had happened, he'd been lifting a weight, trying his best to anyway. Gotten distracted by Two bickering with Three. Lost his stance and then his balance entirely. He barely remembered falling; getting up was no clearer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't make a scene, Number One</span>
  </em>
  <span>, their father had said, so Luther hadn't cried, and Madeleine had stayed very still and very quiet behind him, a great brown bear. She was often silent until they were alone, and then they spoke quickly and eagerly of things they knew their father would disapprove of. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their father disapproved of failure. Luther had objectively failed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He'd stood up, the sharp feeling of pain a knife wrench in his shoulder sending a sickness through his body. The feeling had made his head spin around and around, tiny stars bursting into supernovae, hot and blinding. It wasn't just Madeleine being quiet, he'd realised. Everyone around him had been silent and very still.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't remember falling a second time, the blacking out. One minute he was stood there, and the next minute he was away. What did he remember then? His mother's hands, something cool on his forehead, a voice but not the words, and then the brace. Through it, all had been a feeling of guilt. All he'd wanted was to know what his siblings had been doing, wanted to listen to Diego and Allison. He wanted to be part of the group instead of standing on the outside.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther hadn't cried, not until he was alone. Then, of course, the tears had come because he was still a child in pain, and children cry even if it's just to themselves. They had been quick, muted tears, over almost as soon as they had started.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I think the moon is full," Maddie had said, once the messy business was all done and dealt with, once they were alone. Both of them liked the moon, it's unassuming, wavering light - the distance it had from both the earth and the sun. It could shine and be admired without having to get too close. No one ever berated the moon for being aloof.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the infirmary, Luther had decided something. Not consciously, but the thought embedded itself in his mind nonetheless: he couldn't let his siblings cloud his judgement, no matter how much he loved them. There were two people he could rely on in the world, himself (Madeleine included) and his father. Being distracted would only ever lead him to being hurt.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It would be a long time until his mind changed again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>13.</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembered a tree in the garden. Luther was small then, Madeleine smaller too, a falcon on his shoulder. This age was before he had a name of his own; they were numbers and letters in sequence. Oddly, unlike most of his memories of being small, his siblings weren't around. Everything was strangely quiet; everything was strangely still.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In his memory, it had been cloudy - it often was at the Academy, and Luther had wondered if the whole world was grey or if it was just theirs. They never had the bravery to ask.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They had been walking across the grounds, Luther knew that much, Madeleine a quiet and dutiful companion on his shoulder. Every so often, she would move, but she didn't speak, not in front of their father - not if she wasn't told to. Certainly not if their father was talking, and he'd been talking then, droning on as his cane tap-tap-tapped the ground.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther had struggled to concentrate that day; his mind wanted to wander, wanted to run away. He'd not deliberately ignored his father, but it had been hard to understand what he was saying with the wind in his ears, whipping around his head and dulling all the sound.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you listening, Number One?" Their father had asked, but it had been less a question, really. After all, Reginald Hargreeves rarely asked questions, especially ones he knew the answers to already.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, sir," Luther had replied, and it had been a lie. Even then, he hadn't been in the habit of lying. After then, they had stopped doing it altogether.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Then remind me, Number One, what did I just tell you?" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There had been a trick in that question. All three of them knew that Luther had no answers. Madeleine had shifted on his shoulder, huffed as if she wanted to speak, but she couldn't. After all, the question hadn't been directed at her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther tried to catch his thoughts, tried to remember, but the wind was still loud. It seemed to pull all his ideas away from him; it swept through his brain and left it empty, oh so empty. For a minute, he had stood there, mouth open, eyes wide. There was no response to be had.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Exactly what I thought, Number One," Reginald had said, sounding angry (sounding disappointed), and Luther had shifted on his heels. When Luther looked up, there had been a look in his eyes, not unlike a glare, but his face had been carefully set.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Often, his siblings had joked that their father was a statue, something made of stone. It wasn't an inaccurate statement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry," Luther had told him, knowing he'd done wrong but not entirely knowing why. Inside of him, something like guilt bubbled; he ignored how it felt suspiciously familiar to anger, to frustration.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Reginald's grip, when it had come down, had been bruising on his arm. On his shoulder, Madeleine had squawked once and then gone silent; the noise had echoed in his ear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then the tree in the garden.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I expect better from you, Number One. Why do you think I bring you out here? Why do you think you alone are with me?" He was pulled along, step after step, too fast for his legs until they reached the tree. From there, the whole cloudy garden could be seen. Behind them was the house, the Academy in all it's shuttered glory.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther swallowed down all the emotions threatening to well up inside of him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know, sir." He said, trying to keep his voice from wobbling. Their father had sighed and dropped his arm; for weeks, there had been bruises there in the shapes of fingertips.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had been strange. Despite all their training, Luther had never bruised for so long before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Number One, I require a level of discipline from you. You are, after all, the leader for your siblings." He'd sounded resigned. He was not and would never be a good father. Still, Luther regarded him fondly despite his absence, his cruelty, his deep disregard. Rarely did he consider his children's wishes or human society's demands to raise a child with kindness, with temperance. Unbeknownst to all, it was because he lacked humanity entirely.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Indeed Reginald Hargreeves worked on his own set of rules. Luther respected him for it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther feared him too, but he didn't admit that, even to himself. Still, the feeling was there.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, sir," he had nodded because he didn't know what else to do. Those words were, at least, familiar. Sometimes he thought they were the first words he'd ever learned, the way they rolled so quickly off his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You must understand that you have a role to fulfil, Number One, your job is of utmost importance." Luther knew this, knew the path his father had planned out for him like it was his own desires - they had been told this often enough.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded, Madeleine nipped at his ear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, sir," he repeated, trying to sound confident without being disrespectful.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then, under the tree.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Why can't the other's come out here too?" A rare moment alone with his father was something he should treasure, somehow at that age, he loathed the idea too. He didn't like to walk the empty grounds and know that all attention was on him. For his siblings, he had felt both pity and jealousy in equal measure.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There had been silence. It had dragged on for a minute and then longer still.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then, finally, his father spoke. Instead of answering the question, he directed Luther to look at the sky and asked Luther to practise his Greek - their father had a great love for Greek. Luther was to tell him of the myth of Daedalus and Icarus, a story of freedom, of obedience, of following the will of a father who knows best.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Madeleine had flown then, in the dull light, the clouds that filtered across the ground. Luther imagined her wings melting off, saw her dropping down onto the cold, hard earth, and it made his stomach turn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No more mention was made of their siblings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luther traced the marks on his arms for weeks and resolved not to ask many more questions.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>14.</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Luther was twelve, he met his first fan - the first person he'd ever seen outside of his family and criminals who they weren't allowed to talk to. She had been the same age as them, as far as he could tell, with metal on her teeth. Excited, overbearing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had been their second mission. So far, they'd enjoyed two successes. Luther worried about the future because his team already seemed to be falling apart.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was stern, nervous, stubborn as he would remain for years to come. In the sunlight, his hair shone gold; he hid himself beneath his mask and uniform and pretended he wasn't afraid. No one could see his terror as long as he buried it deep inside of himself, locked away where it could be safe and easily ignored.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The girl had touched him through the flimsy metal barriers that should have kept the public away. It had been little more than a brush of a hand against his own, but he'd remember it for years to come, how cool her fingers had been against his own skin. At twelve, he hid his emotions well; he tried to at least. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He'd turned away to reply to a question, and Madeleine had stepped closer to him, a stocky, fur-covered wolf, and Luther had put his hand on her head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he'd turned back, the girl had been gone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>15.</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was an ever-growing gap between Luther and his siblings, and he couldn't pinpoint when the first cracks had begun to show, only that the chasm seemed all but impassable by the time he was twelve. Somehow, he and Madeleine had ended up on the wrong side of the road.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It sat heavy in his stomach, like a stone he'd somehow swallowed. They missed their family.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Look," Madeleine said, right as someone stepped up beside him, close enough they were almost touching. She was a robin today, small and brightly coloured - it was rare for her to take such a form; she'd only done it because they'd been alone. Recently, they'd been alone more often than not.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looked not at where Madeleine was sitting but to his left: Allison was there, Pietre, a fluffy arctic fox at her feet. Close behind, Diego and Ziphal followed, shuffling along the floor. Both observed him, Allison smiled when he looked up, and Luther smiled back - out of habit, he told himself, no other reason.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Grey light filtered through the windows and scattered across the hallway, it sent familiar patterns across the floor. Luther breathed in, remembered the scent of damp earth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Luther," Allison said. He hated how easily he fell to her demands, the sibling he felt closest to, the one he struggled to let go of. Even without her rumours, Allison was charming, dedicated, sweet. Despite that, there was a sharp bite to her, a carefully measured amount of obedience and snark. She'd hurt people one day, be hurt by them too, Luther could tell that already. In many ways, he'd already seen it happen.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He bit his lip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We were going to Griddys," Diego said, voice carefully measured just for him; it was a reminder of that gulf, the way his family viewed him. Luther had forgotten, that was his own mistake.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Madeliene danced around the light; she'd become a falcon now, something swift and predatory because it wasn't right for them to show weakness when they were supposed to lead. In response, Ziphal had become a hawk, perched primly on Diego's shoulder, her eyes following Madeleine around the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm coming," He murmured, standing up to follow them because he was still young and a little foolish despite all his so-called resolve, all the promises he'd made to himself. For some reason, he still wanted to make them smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Allison took his hand, like a bridge pulling him forward. He didn't know it yet, but in less than a year, all the wax holding them together would melt. All their wings would fall apart. Luther would think it was inevitable; someone always had to fight their father's will. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But at twelve, they'd barely begun to fuck up at all; in their minds, there were still few consequences to doing so. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please comment and Kudos if you like!! You can follow me on <a href="https://forestdivinity.tumblr.com/">@forestdivinity</a> for more content!</p>
<p>Special thanks to <a href="https://discord.gg/dGg2Tb">Elliot's House discord</a> for all your support!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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